Sunday, July 20, 2014

The End and Epilogue (Chapter 28)

It is never really dark in Kuala Lumpur. The lights
in the buildings and streets never go out, and the crimson glow of tail-lights
and the piercing bright headlamps from cars are a constant reminder that this
city, this beautiful city, is alive. It's residents constantly have things to
do be it for business or pleasure. Sleep, what they can get, is time spent not
doing anything inside the heart of Kuala Lumpur.

It is close to half past three in the morning. I am
twenty five stories up a luxury serviced apartment in KLCC, overlooking the
park and facing the Twins. This high up, the draft is chilly and I could even
hear the wind whistling a lonely melody. As ever I am at the balcony, hunched
over the railing on my elbows. A cigarette rests in an ashtray on my left, the
embers glowing when it catches some wind. The smoke almost gracefully dances
away into the cool night air. In my hand is a glass with vodka on the rocks. I
sip it, savoring it, letting the fiery liquid singe my throat and warm my
belly. I alternate with long, hard drags on the cigarette. A small plastic
bottle with a white cap rests inside my shirt pocket, which I have unbuttoned.

I feel tired. I should be tired. I stifle a yawn
and realize I should probably get to bed. My body was telling me to get some
rest and crash on the bed. Yet I wasn't ready to sleep. I wasn't ready to admit
the one thing that would allow me to close my eyes and just... sleep.

Damia. I could see her lovely grays and feel the
gentle touch of her hand on mine. Each time I took a breath I could almost
swear I could smell that delicate perfume she always wore. My mind kept playing
her voice as if she was just beside me. It was calling my name.

A light on the small coffee table at the balcony
caught my attention. My phone. I had put it on silent the moment I checked into
this service apartment earlier in the day. I didn't want to be bothered after
what had transpired today... though turning it off completely seemed out of the
question as well, in case... well, nothing, really. But this time I picked it
up and saw several unread messages.

Dhani, I know you're out there somewhere. Please
take care. Come home soon, we love you. That was from Nisa,
of course. Along with the message she had sent a recorded audio of my little
nieces wishing me goodnight and that they miss me and, Uncle Dhani, when are we
going to buy toys again? Admittedly that brought a smile to lips, however
briefly.

Mr. D, hope to c u soon. We can go hangouts. That was Sharmini. Always concerned for her boss.

There were several others, mostly work related,
some from random girls that probably remembered I was in their address
books. Then there was the one name I had been waiting for to message me.

Dhani, the message said. I am truly
sorry. I wish you well, and I wish you every happiness. This would be the last
you would hear from me. I’m changing my number tomorrow. Have a good life,
Dhani Ibrahim.

The message ended there. And there were no other
messages in my inbox. I read those seven sentences over and over again. My
heart ached,badly. It felt like a
million shards of razor sharp glass sawing into it. I wanted the beating to
stop if only to ease a pain that no medicine or treatment can remedy. After the
umpteenth time, I placed the phone back on the table and returned to my
cigarette(s) and drink. I had already downed half the bottle of Grey Goose. I
might as well finish it.

As I poured the clear liquid into the glass and shook
it around, I gazed back at my beloved city. I wondered how many people created
lives and histories beneath its shimmering lights. How many of those people had
found happiness… and how many more crumbled beneath the weight of its burdens?
Somewhere at this very moment, someone is talking to a loved one on the phone.
Someone else is fighting to feed their children. And perhaps, somewhere in this
city tonight, Damia lies naked beneath a blanket after making love to her
husband. And it is this thought that sends fresh bolts of pain coursing in my
heart. The thought that this person, this husband
of hers had, earlier tonight, taken her into a room. Undressed her, kissed her
lips and neck (the way I never had been able to), caressed her breasts (the way
I always dreamed of doing), kissing the nipples and touching the tender flesh
of her sex (the way I always saw myself doing one day) and entering her,
fucking her, making her moan (the way I always hoped I would hear but now I
know never will) and making her feel safe, guided
and at peace.

Ithrew my
head back and gulped down my drink. I wasn’t even drunk yet. But my head was
swirling as I thought back on what had transpired earlier today.

***

I
had held my piece for half a year. In that half a year, I fought every chance I
could to win back Damia’s heart. To stop her from marrying a man she barely
knew yet for some fucking reason put so much faith in. I wanted to tell her I
could be that man. That man she could count on in all ways. But in that six
months, all my efforts were futile. All my calls and messages were rebuked. All
my attempts to see her stopped. At one point her father, Mr. Isahak, actually
called and asked to meet up with me. I had agreed, and I had met Mr. Isahak at
a cozy coffee shop in Taman Tun. I had been fully prepared for a verbal
lashing, but he had been very… accommodating. He tried to reason with me and
talked in a slow, comforting manner. Mr. Isahak told me to move on, and please
stop bothering her daughter who has made a firm decision. I wasn’t even sure I
was listening. All I remember for certain was I tried pleading to her father to
let me see her and talk to her. I had stooped that low. Eventually Mr. Isahak
had said goodbye and warned me in his most gentlemanly tone to not bother Damia.

In
that torrid six months Nissa questioned why I was so obsessed with getting her
back. Why was this different. Why why why. I told her it was simply because… it
was simply because Damia had opened a door in my heart that I cannot close. It
was because I wanted Damia to be my full-stop. My closing chapter to a life of
vice. I wanted her to be my savior. Nissa had listened like only an elder
sister that was very worried for her only brother could. But she never asked to
interfere, nor would I have asked her to. After that horrible conversation with
Damia’s father, I decided that this was to be my battle. If Damia needed to see
that I could become that person, then I had to show her myself.

If
I could actually get to see her, of course. But in that six months, I never
did.

And
so I had come to today. Her nikah day. The day that she would fall out of my
grasp forever if I didn’t stop her. How did I come to find out? Because
earlier, very early this morning, I tried to call her. One of her sisters
answered the phone. It was Dianawati.

“Yan,
please let me speak to her, please,” I asked, trying hard not to sound pleading
though I suspect I failed terribly.

“Abang
Dhani, please. Stop this. Please leave my sister alone,” Diana said. She said
it in a voice that sounded flustered and disappointed.

“Diana
you don’t understand. I’ve waited for half a year. Please Diana, I need to tell
Damia that I can be the man she needs. I can be that man. God, Diana, if only
you knew how much I love your sister. Please.”

“I
do know, but I’m sorry Abang Dhani, this just can’t go on. Especially not
today. We’re at Putrajaya already,” Diana said, and something in her voice
sounded that she had let slip something she shouldn’t have.

“Diana,
are you going to the mosque? Diana is she getting married today? Diana, please,
answer me!” Panic had begun to set in me.

“Goodbye
Abang Dhani. Don’t call anymore or… or I don’t know, I’ll call the cops,” she
said and hung up. I tried to call again and again but got the engaged tone.
They must have left the phone off the hook. I paced my apartment. My heart was
racing. Putrajaya? We’re leaving for
Putrajaya already. That’s what Diana said. Was Damia getting hitched today?
It can only be so. My hands began to shake and in a sudden burst or rage I
punched my bedroom door hard enough that the wood splintered. Those splinters
cut into my fist. I went to the washroom and cleaned my hand, using tweezers to
pull out as many splinters as I could. Then I grabbed my phone and called
Nissa.

“Nissa
she’s getting married today,” I said the moment I heard her answer.

I
heard Nissa sigh. “Dhani, there are somethings in life you cannot change.
Please, Dhani. Mengucap. If she’s getting married today, it means she’s put you
behind her. I know it’s not what you want to hear. But if she was waiting for
you, she wouldn’t have gone ahead. Please, Dhani. Let her go. You had your time
with her. It’s not meant to be. Please, please, I beg you. Don’t do anything
stupid. Please, Dhani.”

I
hung up the phone. Not because I was angry at my sister. But because I couldn’t
process what this could mean to me and my endevour to win Damia’s heart back.

Don’t do anything stupid, Dhani, Nissa had warned.

I
grabbed my helmet, practically ran to my bike and within fifteen minutes I was
on the MEX Highway towards Putrajaya. I knew it was a long-shot. But I also
sort of calculated the odds. I went almost full throttle and reached Putrajaya
soon enough. I threaded my motorcycle between traffic and ran red lights to get
to mosque. She will be having her nikah ceremony there. I knew it.

Sayang, if we get married, where do want it
to be? Damia asked me close
to one and a half years ago, back when we were happy. I had answered I wasn’t
sure. I had suggested we got married at a hotel or country club. Damia had
smiled patiently. I meant, she had
said in that sweet, husky voice of hers. Where
would our nikah be? Again, I answered I didn’t know, but anywhere that
would make her happy is where I would want it to be. Then, can we have our ceremony at Masjid Putrajaya? It’s a lovely
mosque with a view… and Putrajaya is where we first said ‘I love you’ to each
other. I had agreed, anything for Damia, you see. So even though I’m not the
fucking man she was marrying today, I knew that was the mosque she’d be in. I
just knew.

I
arrived at the mosque. Damia was right: it was beautiful. It looked like the
Hagia Sophia, resplendent in its rose walls. This was the first time I would be
stepping into a mosque since… ages. Nonetheless, I parked my bike (not even
bothering to lock it), took off my helmet and ran inside. There were a few
tourists, wearing the necessary robes. They looked at me oddly. Perhaps the
sight of a man in jeans and a tshirt running around with a helmet was not
something they thought they’d see in a mosque.

The
mosque was huge. I paced back and forth until finally a kindly looking young
man approached me.

“Assalamualaikum,
ay I help you, sir? You seem a bit… lost.” he asked.

“Yes,
sorry. Uh, Waalaikumussalam. Sorry. But where do you hold your nikahs? Is there
a particular area of the masjid, like a room or a dewan or something?”

The
young man smiled almost apologetically. “Oh so you’re here for a nikah?
Actually today they’re doing it in the main prayer hall. After all it’s still
quite early, so we granted them access. Just walk straight ahead, sir,” he
said. Then he added, jokingly, “You seem rushed, are you the groom?”

I
had already walked briskly towards the main hall. “I wish I was,” I said
quietly. I managed to tear off my shoes and I ran into the main hall. Even in
that panic, for a moment I was taken back by just how beautiful the mosque was:
the inside was lushly carpeted, and Quranic verses adorned the dome high above,
where a majestic chandelier hung. Then I refocused and scanned the massive hall
with my eyes. Up ahead of me, just in front of the mimbar, was a party of
people. They were sat in groups: a group of men directly below the mimbar, and
a group of ladies. It had to be Damia and her family. I quickened my footsteps
just as soon as I saw a tall man with a neatly kept but full beard, wearing a
white Baju Melayu, take a seat on a cushion in front of three men dressed in
somber black robes. The nikah must be starting. I saw them talk to one another,
smiling, and then I saw her. I saw Damia. She hasn’t seen me. Her head was
bowed down slightly. None of the others, her family and by now I know for sure
the grooms’, noticed me yet, even if I was carrying a helmet that bobbed wildly
in my hands.

I
stopped in my tracks. Time seemed to slow down. She was sitting on a cushion,
too, just slightly behind the men. In front of her I saw several platters of
gifts: hantaran, I told myself. But I
couldn’t take my eyes off Damia. She looked… she looked absolutely beautiful.
She was in a shining white abaya with gold detailing. Her hijab was a satin
cream shawl that had been so, so beautifully wrapped and styled around her. Her
make-up artist had had an easy job: Damia looked her natural self, with only
mascara to accentuate her eyes, and faint blusher. Her lips were a lovely rose
pink. Her hands were intricately decorated with henna.

The
world seemed to cease to exist to me. Again, it was like being in a mess of
watercolors, with only Damia and myself distinct and tangible. My heart sank,
out of love and fear for what was going to transpire soon if I didn’t stop it.
Needles and pins began to prick inside my chest.. and then Damia raised her
head and saw me. The look on her face… the look was of disbelief. I ran towards
the group of people.

“Damia,
stop!” I shouted. “Please!”

Everyone
turned to look at me. I felt the piercing gaze of a lot of eyes, judging me. I
saw Mr. Isahak, looking disappointed beside the imam and his would be son-in-law.
I saw Damia’s siblings jaws drop, and her brothers got up and approached me. I
saw Damia wanting to stand up, only for her mother and sisters to keep her in
place.

“Damia,
please!” I shouted. “Don’t do this. I know you love,” I said. Gasps emanated
from the guests. Her brothers approached me and tried to show me the door but I
just barged through. I barged through the people and just kneeled in front of
Damia. She was so beautiful it broke my heart. Her brows furrowed, and after so
long, I was finally looking into her gray eyes again, and once again I saw
myself drowning in them. But today they seemed distant, and cold. I choked back
a sob.

“Damia,”
I said. “Please. Don’t do this. I know deep in your heart you still love me. I
have waited for you. I am here because I know you love me and you know how much
I love you. Don’t leave me, Damia. Don’t go where I cannot follow.”

Her
mother, sisters and family were too stunned by my rude interruption to say
anything. So I continued.

“I
beg you, Damia. Give me a chance. I am not the person I was before I met you.
You make me good. You make me better. And if you give me this chance I will
spend my life, our lives, to make us better. To make us happier that we’ve ever
been. I love you, Damia. I’ve loved you since the day I looked into your eyes,
even if I didn’t admit it back then. I love you, Damia.”

She
just sat there, quiet. But her eyes started to water. Then I reached for her
hand. That’s when I felt strong hands grab my arms and pull me up. It was
mosque security. They dragged me away from the ceremony, where most of the
family members were still too surprised to say anything. From the corner of my
eyes I saw Mr. Isahak cradle his head as if in shame, and I vaguely saw a man I
did not recognize scold me. But my eyes were fixated on Damia, only on Damia.
She looked at me being dragged away. I didn’t fight. I had ruined this day
enough, and I wanted this gamble to pay off.

“I
love you, Damia!” I shouted repeatedly as the two security guards dragged me
all the way to the outside entrance. They shoved me and warned me that they’d
call the police. Then three men came up to me. It was Mr. Isahak and the groom,
with someone I assumed was the grooms father.

“Mr.
Isahak, I’m sorry…” I started but that’s when he slapped me. Hard.

“Please!
You have shamed me, my daughter and my family! I did not want this to get out
of hand, but you’ve just forced me to!” Mr. Isahak said, vehemently. I accepted
his scolding, and was feeling smaller every second. Then the groom spoke to me.

“Assalamualaikum.
You must be Dhani Ibrahim,” he said. He was a kind looking man, with a hard,
burrowing stare. He was about three inches taller than me, and heavier built.
His skin was creamy white and he had an air of Arab around him. His forehead
had dark marks.

“Damia
told me about you. I had told her you were nothing to worry about. Seems I was
wrong.By the way, I am Saladin Yaacob,”
he said. “I am to be Damia’s husband, before our ceremony was so rudely
interrupted. And I believe I have a right to tell you not to be here. Leave.
You’ve caused distress to Mr. Isahak and his family. They are my family too,
now.”

“Stop,
Dhani,” came a familiar voice. Mr. Isahak, Saladin and the other man turned
around. Damia was behind them. She came up to us. She looked so very tall… and
strong.

“Daddy,”
she said to her father and then address the other men. “Abang, Ayah. Please let
me talk to him alone. I won’t take long. Please wait for me inside the mosque.
I will come back and we can finish the ceremony.”

Saladin
opened his mouth to protest, but Damia hushed him. “Please Abang Deen. Izinkan
saya, sementara saya belum menjadi isteri Abang. Allow me to speak to Dhani. It
will be the last time.”

Saladin
nodded, then the three men turned away. Saladin kept looking back.

Finally
it was just Damia and I. After so long, I was finally facing the love of my
life, in person. How I missed her. She was gorgeous. She looked like a princess
on… why, on a wedding day.

“Dhani,”
she sighed. She looked at me with a gaze that was laced with sympathy. I tried
to reach for her hands but she pulled them away and hid them beneath the loose
sleeves of her abaya. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I burst into tears. I
dropped my helmet and held my hands to my face.

“Dhani,”
Damia said. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because
I fucking love you!” I said. “I fucking love you and I have missed you. I have
tried hard to show and prove to you that I can be the man you want me to be.”

“Dhani,
please. Listen to me. Please, just listen, because this will be the last time I
will ever speak to you,” Damia said in soft, pleading tone. “Dhani, I am going
to marry Saladin. I have come too far to to change my plans.”

I
remained quite, and just wiped my eyes. I felt like a child denied candy. Damia
continued, “I am going to marry him because this is what needs to happen. I
feel… I feel at peace, with him. He has taught me how to be at peace with
myself… with my past. And he is gentle, and kind. He has never once touched me
before this.”

“What
are you trying to say?” I asked.

“I
guess I’m trying to tell that he makes me better person. A happier person,”
Damia said. A single tear fell from her eyes. She wiped it away. I had nothing
to say. To hear Damia say she loved another man was gut-wrenching. Our eyes
locked, although both of us knew now it meant nought. But I saw something in
her eyes… and it told me that I would never win her back. That look told me I
had lost her, forever. That look in her eyes told me to abandon all hope, and
it told me that she was never going to come back to me, regardless of how she
felt. Because –

“I
love you, Dhani Ibrahim,” Damia said. I knew she meant it, too, the same way I
knew despite her finally professing those words to me after so long, she
wouldn’t turn back now.

“I’ve
loved you since the day you first took my hand and lent me a shoulder to cry
on. I’ve loved you since those days we went out on lunchdates, and then on
dates. I’ve loved you, since the day you told me how you felt beneath fireworks
not too far from here. I have never stopped loving you, Dhani Ibrahim. You’re
always in my dreams and prayers. But now…”

“Now,”
I said. “Now, finally, you can stop loving me.”

More
tears fell from her eyes, which had become red. “Yes,” she said, trying hard
not to sob. “Now, I can finally stop loving you. Despite what I feel for you,
despite my heart. Because…”

“Because
you can never forget,” I said. My tears had dried up. Now I just felt tired,
and lost. “Because you can never forget who I used to be. Because nothing I say
can make you forget.”

She
nodded. We stood there in silence: two persons that knew each other so well,
but in a few moments, would become complete strangers.

“Goodbye,
Dhani Ibrahim,” Damia said. With that, she turned away. I watched her walk
back. She didn’t look back at all. Not even once.

I
left as soon as I could no longer see her form walking. I rode back to Kuala
Lumpur, feeling… nothing. But in my head I saw that man, Saladin, reciting the
lafaz and handing over her mas kahwin. In my head I saw him kiss her forehead,
breaking their barriers, and then leading her in prayer. In my head I saw how
calm and at peace Damia seemed to be. For the first time in my life, I cried
inside a helmet. Once I reached Kuala Lumpur, I checked into an expensive
serviced apartment and ordered in a few bottles of vodka and told the doorman
to get me some cigarettes.

***

And
I here I am, looking over Kuala Lumpur. I stopped imagining Saladin and Damia
fucking. Or it must be the alcohol finally getting to my head. I checked the
bottle and decided to chug it straight from there. Again I withstood the
burning in my throat and stomach. I kept lighting cigarette after cigarette.
The booze was making my head spin now. The cigarettes seemed to amplify the
effect. I went into the living room and grabbed my wallet, and walked back to
balcony.

I
fished out a polaroid photo of Damia and I that I kept. The date on the
photograph showed it to be from a year ago. The photo was out of focus, but
that somehow added to the charm of the moment. I remembered the day the
photograph was taken. It was when we went to a Malaysian Philharmonic Orchestra
concert. Damia had worn an all black dress that clung to her lovely figure, with
a belt to add some sass and a smokey gray hijab that almost perfectly matched
her eyes. I wore a matching suit. The photograph was of us, cheeks together,
smiling for the camera. Looking at it, I saw nothing but happiness. There was
little to indicate an impending fallout.

I stared at the picture, and lit
another cigarette. Then I brought the lighter to the photograph. It tasted the
flame and immediately caught. I held on to it as it burned. The fire slowly
singed away our picture. And even as my fingers felt hot from the fire, I could
feel tendrils of cold ice envelope my heart. I let the photograph crumble to
ashes, and a wind blew away the fragments into the cool Kuala Lumpur night.